


Oh, He Was (Is) Well Loved

by Unuora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco being dramatic, Fluff, Humor, M/M, No Major Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 15:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20659454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unuora/pseuds/Unuora
Summary: Harry Potter died May 2nd 1998. Battle of Hogwarts. Whatever happened the specifics were lost in the chaos of the battle, and there was no body to bury. Nearly every able bodied witch and wizard attended the funeral because the Boy Who Lived had finally died.That didn’t stop people from talking about him, though. They say that a lie can travel halfway around the world before the truth can get its boots on, and the tales grow more insane by the day. Harry Potter was nine feet tall. He punched Voldemort in the face after being hit by the killing curse. He coerced a herd of Dementors to suck out Voldemort’s soul. Considering there are plenty of people alive who went to school with him and saw him fall asleep in History of Magic every day of the week there is a lot of lying going on.Draco is, however, absolutely sick of it.





	Oh, He Was (Is) Well Loved

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this so long ago that i forgot where i got this idea from, and after going through discord chat logs apparently it was from a dream i had except at the end draco got kicked out of my college harry potter club. sorry boo

Harry Potter died May 2nd 1998. Battle of Hogwarts. Whatever happened the specifics were lost in the chaos of the battle, and there was no body to bury. Nearly every able bodied witch and wizard attended the funeral because the Boy Who Lived had finally died.

That didn’t stop people from talking about him, though. They say that a lie can travel halfway around the world before the truth can get its boots on, and the tales grow more insane by the day. Harry Potter was nine feet tall. He punched Voldemort in the face after being hit by the killing curse. He coerced a herd of Dementors to suck out Voldemort’s soul. Considering there are plenty of people alive who went to school with him and saw him fall asleep in History of Magic every day of the week there is a lot of lying going on.

Draco is, however, absolutely sick of it.

“That’s not what he looked like,” he’ll snipe at an artist painting a mural of Potter in Diagon Alley. “He was 18 and had acne. He did not have that kind of jawline, not in anyone’s imagination.”

No one listens, of course. Why would they. It’s been two years since the war and everyone’s absolutely lost their minds. Such a short amount of time for everyone to forget. Draco’s derision doesn’t stop _The Prophet_ from arriving at his window each morning with a new fact or high tale about Harry Potter.

Draco painstakingly sends howlers to _The Prophet_. “THAT’S NOT WHAT HAPPENED,” they blare, continuously, day after day. “I SHOULD KNOW. I WAS THERE.” The frenzied press have no idea what to do, and with a community as small as wizarding Britain it’s not long before everyone knows how Draco’s haranguing them.

“Dear,” Pansy says one day, waltzing through the Floo of Draco’s apartment. “Why are you in _T__he Quibbler_ defending Harry Potter, our holy savior, from the lies and slander of the masses?”

Draco glares at her slantingly from where he’s tidying rows of potion ingredients. “Because apparently everyone else that went to Hogwarts with us has turned fraught with cowardice.”  
  
The edges of Pansy’s mouth turn up. “And you are taking on this arduous mission to rectify these wrongs personally.”

“If I must,” Draco scoffs, finishing what he’s doing and stepping into the kitchen to wash his hands. “Pansy, dear, he doesn’t deserve such undue praise.”

“He saved the world,” Pansy says, tossing the paper onto Draco’s kitchen table and folding herself delicately into a seat. “Is that really undue praise?”

“But he did not do it _chiseled from marble_,” Draco hisses, shutting off the tap harshly. It’s only because Pansy has the self-restraint and décor of a queen that she doesn’t laugh.

“Draco, darling, if he had been you wouldn’t have survived.”

Draco’s mouth goes flat in a wholly derisive way. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s dead, darling,” Pansy says, voice soft. “Perhaps it’s time you let the rest of the world take what they want from a dead man.”

After the war Draco had tried to reach out to some people in order to apologize, as he ought to, and the first one to respond was Luna.

Luna was unlike anyone Draco had ever met, but she was easy to be around, he found. He could tell her things like _I’m surprised they didn’t try to chase me out of England altogether _or _maybe Pansy has the right idea, just running away_. She always just looks at him with those big compassionate eyes and tells him that the Narumphs will protect him or something. It makes him feel better, somehow, Merlin help him.

They go out for drinks often, though, and Draco listens to her talk about her recent discoveries that she’s going to put in _The Quibbler_. She says he’s useful for understanding what the public needs to know. Whenever Draco’s struggling with a potion, she’s usually got some brilliant insight to help him along, too.

Luna likes to explore, so they often end up in weird pubs scattered about. _You’ll get Wrackspurts if you stay in the same place all the time! _is what she says. It’s one of those times where Luna’s chosen some small pub tucked away in the wilds of Scotland for them to enjoy their drinks. It’s blisteringly cold and incredibly beautiful, and the waitress smiles at him when he orders their drinks.

But before he can go on enjoying his day his gaze drifts across the room to an occupied table. Occupied with none other than…

“That’s Harry Potter,” Draco says, squinting.

“It looks like it,” Luna says airily.

“He’s supposed to be dead.”

“The things people say these days,” Luna says, not even looking up from where she’s rifling through her bag until she finally procures a notebook. “Aha!”

“Luna,” Draco says, schooling himself markedly. “Can you answer a question for me?”

“Always, Draco.”

“That _is_ Harry Potter, yes?”

“You just said so yourself,” Luna says, unaffected, as she flips through the notebook to find a page.

“Right.”

Draco makes it diligently through his first two drinks before his fidgeting drives Luna to ask what’s wrong with him.

“Harry Potter is right there! He’s sitting right there.” Draco takes a deep breath. “I need to go speak with him.”

“Alright.”

“You’re not going to stop me?”

“Why should I?” Luna looks up at him with earnest eyes, a touch too honest the way she always is. “You’re not going to hurt him. You’ve missed him too much.”

Draco’s spent too much time around Luna since the war for this to outwardly fluster him, but inwardly he reels, blinking at her. He snaps his mouth shut and turns on his heel away from her. He approaches the table, and Harry looks up from the book he’s reading to stare at Draco.

“Since when are you alive?”

“Oh,” is all he says. “Hullo.”

Draco feels the pressure in his chest building, tight and suffocating like he might explode, and he scoffs. “A dead man comes alive, and all he’s got to say for himself is ‘hullo’.”

“Ah,” Harry says, shrugging. “Wasn’t expecting you? I haven’t had time to prepare.”

“You’re—you’re unbelievable,” Draco says, throwing his hands up in an effort to stop them from strangling the world’s savior without his consent. “It makes sense now! I couldn’t figure out why Weasley and Granger and the rest of the Gryffindor rot would let this happen, but I get it now. All this bullshit, and it’s all because you’ve never stopped being a right fucking git, I forgot—” His voice is raised now, and there are people staring, but Harry doesn’t seem that concerned.

“What is _wrong_ with the world,” Draco mutters, dropping into the seat adjacent to Harry. Draco puts his head in his hands. “To think that I…”

“Yes?” Harry’s expression is infuriatingly placid.

Draco looks up at him scathingly, suddenly feeling deflated, all the pressure gone. “You understand the press is going mental about you, even after all this time.”

“Ah, yeah,” Harry says, shrugging. “What’s to be done. They’ll tire of me eventually.”

“You’re making history as a dead martyr while living in the Scottish countryside,” Draco whispers to himself. “Of course, you are.”

“Would you have preferred I stayed and had them defame me for not living up to expectations?” Harry pauses for a second, then laughs. “Yes, that would make sense, wouldn’t it.”

Draco squints at him. “So, you’re hiding because you’re afraid of the press?”

“I’m not hiding, Malfoy,” Harry says, smiling. “Nobody’s looked. You seemed to find me just fine.”

“Because you died! There was a funeral,” Draco says, stricken. “People had eulogies for you.”

“Er,” Harry says, “Yes, I did say that was overkill. I didn’t want people to use me as an icon, and Molly—well, she said that family does what they must to protect each other.”

Draco sits back in his seat, wary. “And now you’re… a farmer.”

Harry laughs. “God, no. I teach. I teach Transfiguration and Defense to kids who for whatever reason can’t go to Hogwarts.”

Draco blinked. “Oh,” he says, “And somehow no one recognizes you?”

“Usually I have some disillusionment charms,” Harry says, “The ones who figure it out usually dismiss it or keep it to themselves. I go by James Black now, and I don’t think many people want to accuse me of being Harry Potter. You know how it is.”

Merlin. The startled amusement abates the simmering anger in his stomach, and Draco feels the corners of his mouth twitch up, “And my grandmother rolls in her grave.”

“Yes,” is all Harry says, before picking his book back up from where he’s lain it on the table. “If that’s all, I should get back to work.”

“Ah,” Draco says, abruptly feeling awkward. “Yes, thank you, Potter. Good day.”

Draco dazedly makes his way back to Luna’s table where’s she’s diligently scribbling away at her notebook with a glass of cider at her side.

“Hullo,” she greets when he sits down, “How’s Harry doing?”

“Brilliant, apparently,” Draco says, waving the waitress over to order another drink. He needs it. “You’ve known?”

“Of course,” Luna says, “He told all his friends about running away, and we’ve kept his secret because we owe him. And you will as well, because you owe him too, right?”

Draco swallows hard, and he’s inordinately grateful when the waitress sets a full glass in front of him. He takes a long swig. “Yes,” is all he says. Some nights he closes his eyes and sees Fiendfyre, but it felt a lot easier to be grateful to a ghost than a person.

He keeps Harry’s stupid secret though, of course he does. But he lies awake at night, mind reeling over seeing Harry’s face in some Scottish pub, at the carefree, lax way he’d laughed around him. That was probably the first time they’d ever had a conversation that could be called friendly.

He doesn’t sleep that night, and when he gets _T__he Prophet_ the next morning with a section on Harry Potter’s secret love affairs he doesn’t even open the paper before tossing it in the trash. _They’ll tire of me eventually_ Harry had said, and anyway, Draco doesn’t feel much like writing Howlers at the moment anyway.

When Pansy walks through the Floo Draco’s holding a book and standing over a bubbling cauldron. He doesn’t even twitch at the noise the Floo makes, and while he’s staring at the book he’s clearly not concentrating.

“Dear,” Pansy says, “I am no potions expert, but I don’t think that should be happening.” Draco jolts as if woken up from a deep sleep, looking wildly from her, to the book, to the cauldron that’s just about boiling over.

“Fuck!” He tosses the book away, grabbing his wand and tossing spells about. When the fire is extinguished and whatever’s in the cauldron no longer looks set to explode, he sits down with a huff. “Thank you. I am not myself today.”

“Apparently,” Pansy says lightly, sniffing. Draco looks away, feeling uncomfortable. With Pansy living in Paris they arrange days to meet for lunch, and Draco had missed this week’s meeting.

“I’ll make it up to you, Pans,” Draco says, placatingly. He runs his hands through his hair, leaving it disheveled and sticking in every direction.

“Are you doing alright, Draco?” Pansy says after Draco’s led them into the kitchen and urged her to sit. “I’ve been told you haven’t even threatened a single _Prophet_ writer in weeks.”

“Yes,” Draco says, putting the kettle on. “I thought perhaps you were right. I should let it go.”

“Hm,” Pansy says, taking off her heels and crossing her legs. “While normally I’d be thrilled to hear you admit that I am leaning more towards concerned.”

“What do you want me to say?” Draco says sharply, pulling down two mugs from the cabinet. “I admit you’re right, as you often are.” Pansy might believe him but he idles near the kettle, hands fluttering anxiously about as he pointlessly reorders and reorganizes.

“Would you tell me what happened and spare me all this quibbling?” Pansy arches a delicate eyebrow at the way Draco’s mouth twitches wryly, a good confession as any.

“No mercy,” Draco complains, playing with a scrap of paper that was left somewhere. “It’s nothing to worry yourself over.”

“But enough for you to worry yourself,” Pansy says, gentling her expression when Draco gave her a flat look. “Listen, tell me, don’t tell me, I don’t care, but you look worse than after my aunt Maurice caught us in the drawing room.”

“There was nothing happening in that drawing room,” Draco scoffs, though he smiles slightly.

“No, nothing worse than some raunchy novels, but,” Pansy says with a sly grin, “The rumors.”

Draco’s shoulders shake. “It was your stupid idea,” Draco says, relaxing against the counter. He folds the paper into thirds, then sixths. “After so many years of carefully keeping my parents at bay you let them in with a million questions about betrothal.”

“It expedited the matters at hand,” Pansy says with a shrug, to Draco’s predictable scoff.

“And by ‘matters at hand’ you mean my coming out to my parents, to their bewildered alarm—”

“Yet, they don’t seem to mind, now.”

“Yes, well, now, they’re concerned far more about banal things like my employment, or the state of the Manor’s gardens.”

“So its not your parents, then,” Pansy says, expressionless when Draco scowls at her hotly.

“Stop that,” he scolds, taking the kettle off once it starts to screech. He pours two mugs, glaring at the countertop. “It’s not my place to tell you—”

“But you want to.” Draco puts the kettle down a bit harder than he intended to.

“I saw Harry Potter,” Draco admits loudly, then flushes at the way that statement ensures doubts to his sanity. “He faked his death, if you can believe that, and I only know because Luna trusted me to know, for some reason, and—” he stops himself from saying _and everything is terrifying again_ because that sounds crazy, it does, and he knows it. Pansy’s staring at him, waiting patiently.

“I know it sounds unbelievable, and I could say I’m telling the truth but that’s just as unbelievable,” Draco says.

Pansy blinks, thinking, and then she gestures to him. “Come here, you’re letting the tea get cold.”

Draco sits in his office and in between fulfilling the potion requests he gets from people, the Ministry, or St. Mungos, he writes a letter.

He writes a few words,  
  
_Dear Harry Potter,_  
  
And then he stands up, paces in a circle, brews some temperamental blood replenishing potion for those with various blood disorders for St. Mungos, and sits back down.

He writes:

_Dear Harry Potter,_  
_I hope this letter finds you well. I think surprised would barely express how I feel after our last meeting, and I think we should discuss--_  
  
He stands up, moves half of the books on his bookshelf only to put them in the same place again, and goes to make himself lunch. He sits back down, and he writes:

_Dear Mr.Potter,  
I wanted to apologize for my behavior in the bar, and for my long unrepented mistakes of the war. I should know better than to think you owe me anything, and after everything I should not be passing judgements upon you—_

Draco balls up the paper and throws it into the fire, feeling a swell of satisfaction at the crackle that it creates. Laying his head on his desk he takes a deep breath, grabbing a new sheet of paper and his quill and writes:

_Dear Harry,  
I can’t believe you’re alive after all these years of letting us think you a great martyr. I spent years trying to make up for what you lost, but you didn’t really lose, did you? Here I’ve been making a fool of myself chasing after an iconic hero, when it’s just been another story and we could've both been hiding ourselves away—_

Draco folds up this paper in half, then quarters, then eighths, small as it can go, and then he drops it into the fire.

_Dear Harry Potter,_

_No, I'm not here to ask you for anything. Or to crow my victory. I apologize for my behavior the other night. The war hasn't treated anyone well, least of all you, and to expect anything else from you is foolish. Just remember that England is eagerly awaiting your return._

_Still, you have my word that I will do nothing to compromise your secrets. If you ever need my assistance you needn't hesitate._

_Draco Lucius Malfoy_

_  
Dear Draco Malfoy,_  
  
_I never thought I’d see the day you’d apologize to me. Consider it accepted. I always expected you’d find me somehow. I might be far away from London now, but I still hear from The Prophet you know. It’s a bit charming how shirty you got with all the journalists. I guess that’s how you got all your insults out before you met up with me. Anyway, I appreciate it._  
  
_Best,_

_ Harry Potter _

_ P.S. I thought you’d like to know some of the rags are true. I do play guitar quite badly. And I really did kiss Cedric once. _

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this... six months ago? and i've been feeling so deeply embarrassed about my fics that i threw it into a folder to rot. and i've been mulling around feeling uninspired and useless, and dug this out, and well, i like it and maybe someone else will too.
> 
> i hope you enjoyed dearies :)


End file.
